Afterwards, perhaps, I will speak to him. I will insist that he come to luncheon at the Abbey.
However, when I pull up outside the church, I realize that I am already late. Everyone else is inside. I cringe at the scene I will make entering the church so unexpectedly and so late.
Then I remember that there is a more discreet entry through a side door. This door leads to a small room, almost an antechamber, and out to my family pew. I can enter more discreetly that way. My presence will cause a stir no matter what, but perhaps this way some will not detect me.
I walk to this side entrance, eschewing the main one. I open the door and—to my shock—Alfred Saintsbury is standing in the small room.
I say nothing. We merely look at each other, neither of us guarded in our surprise. He looks no less shocked to see me than I feel to see him.
And then he reaches for me. He grasps my arms right above the elbows, his touch not particularly gentle.
“Why are you here?” he says, his tone low and rough.
I give a little laugh, but not one that I recognize from myself. It is not the harsh, bitter laugh I gave him during our first meeting. I am not sure what it is, but I am vaguely conscious that his presence has wrung it from me before.
“I came to see you. To see you preach.”
“I am not preaching the sermon today. I asked Mr. Peabody to do so in my stead.”
“Why?”
“Annabelle,” he says. “I have not been well?—"
“Are you ill?” I say, alarm spiking through me at the possibility that he might be sick.
“No, no, not actually ill, just—I have been—well, I suppose you could say I have been ill. Ill at the prospect of our last meeting.”
His words seem like they emanate from within myself.
On the other side of the door, I can hear the deep drone of Mr. Peabody’s preaching. I can hear the shifting of people in the pews. I want to sayme toobut the words catch in my throat.
He is so good at telling me what he feels—and it is impossible for me to even confirm that I feel the same.
Instead, I put my arms around his neck and kiss him. He groans against me. It is a groan, I know, of desireandof resistance to our dangerous location.
Frantically, I tell myself that we are invisible. Everyone is listening to the sermon. I can havethiswith Alfred to fortify myself, to make it possible to speak to him about—about what I am not sure. My staying longer in Trescott perhaps. A few more weeks of assignations.
I push him against the wall of the antechamber and kisshim deeply, his cock hard against my stomach. He moans again.
“Annabelle, God,” he says. “We can’t. Not here.”
“I want you,” I say, my voice desperate even to my own ears. My nipples are hard points underneath my chemise and corset. “No one will see. No one will know. I demand it.”
It is a mad thing to insist upon, but I have lost my mind. I need him. I want him. Iwillhave him.
“We will be quiet. All outside are occupied.”
“Annabelle, we could be discovered,” he says, but his words are not harsh. His breath is coming fast and shallow. He won’t resist me. He always does what I ask.
To reward him for being so good, I drop to my knees and lay a hand on his engorged cock.
He exhales sharply.
“Yes,” he whispers, bringing his hand to tangle in my hair. “I have thought of it a thousand times this past week. Your sweet mouth.”
My hands shaking, I undo the placket of his trousers. When I see his cock again, I nearly moan at the sight of it.
I take him in my mouth and he groans, his fingers tangling in my hair.
